


must have been the mistletoe

by countthestars



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-20
Updated: 2014-11-20
Packaged: 2018-02-25 15:33:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2626922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/countthestars/pseuds/countthestars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Hey, Harry,” Niall says, voice low and conspiratorial. “Look up.”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“What?” Harry whispers back, because there's a lot to look at up there, blinking lights and boughs of garland and... “is that mistletoe?”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“'Fraid so,” Niall confirms. His lips twitch like he's fighting a smile, but he keeps a straight face as he taps his finger against his mouth. “It's bad luck not to kiss someone underneath mistletoe.”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	must have been the mistletoe

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sickly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sickly/gifts).



> for tomlinshaw, who requested childhood friends niall & harry going their separate ways to uni and niall coming home 4 years later; everyone's hot everyone's in love and there's way too much mistletoe. i hope this is what you wanted! there is definitely too much mistletoe.
> 
> thanks to my amazing beta who's a shooting star and will get proper recognition once authors are revealed :)
> 
> title from 'it must have been the mistletoe' which is a truly horrendous christmas song and sadly fitting for this story.

 

The first Harry hears of it is a mostly incomprehensible text message, garbled words that _could_ spell “I'll be home for Christmas!” if you're an optimist.

Harry's always been pragmatic, so he types back, “ _don't drink and text_ ” and then, a second later, “ _are you really coming home for christmas?_ ” He doesn't get an answer, which could mean anything.

The second Harry hears of it is a far more reliable, if embarrassing, source.

“I picked up a roast for Christmas dinner,” his mum says one morning, about a week from Christmas. “I thought I could make that gravy you and Gem like.”

“Sounds great, mum,” Harry replies, eyes on his phone. He made the mistake of challenging Zayn to a game of Words with Friends. It's taking a real toll on his self-esteem.

“Bobby says Theo's growing like a weed,” she continues, stirring milk into her tea. “Thinks he'll take his first step before the new year.”

“Yeah? How many pictures did he show you before you escaped with the roast?”

His mum snorts out a laugh. “Only seven, actually.”

Harry grins, gaze still fixed on the screen, where Zayn has somehow managed to get another triple score word. “Unbelievable,” he mutters to himself. Louder, he adds, “Did you get those sausages I like?”

“I did,” his mum confirms. “You don't know how many Theo pictures I had to sit through for it, either.”

“Bobby's a proud granddad,” Harry says with a shrug, frowning at his abysmal score.

Taking a sip of tea, his mum murmurs her agreement. “Proud dad, too. Did you know Niall's back in town?”

Harry jerks his head up, eyes wide. “What?”

His mum grins at him over the rim of her mug, looking far too smug.

-

It should rankle, finding out the news from his mum, of all people, but Bobby's butcher counter has been a long-standing source of gossip, and his mum has been a loyal customer since before Harry was mates with Niall, even.

Anyway, when Harry texts him this time (“ _Your dad_ _says you're in town. Drinks?”_ ) and his mobile buzzes with a response only a few minutes later (“ _Yes ! Could go for a pint !_ ”), Harry can't help the smile that tugs at his lips.

-

It's a small town, and it feels even smaller now that Harry's returned from the sprawling expanse of Manchester. A thin layer of snow crunches under his boots as he walks the familiar streets, glittering like a carpet of diamonds beneath the pockets of warm light cast by streetlamps. The snow will melt by morning, taking its magic with it, but right now it blankets the ground like an enchantment, sparkling and pure.

Harry's shivering a bit by the time he reaches the pub, his scarf too thin to offer much protection against the chill and his hands curled in his pockets. He lets out a sigh of relief when he pulls the door open and warm air envelopes him, shuffling inside and stamping his boots.

The pub is crowded and loud. Harry glances around, taking in the brightly colored lights blinking obnoxiously overhead and the strands of garland tacked above the bar. He hears Niall before he sees him, his braying laugh carrying across the room. Grinning, Harry pushes through the tangle of people until he reaches Niall's table. It's already crowded with old schoolmates and Harry finds himself caught up in a flurry of hugs and murmured 'how-have-you-been's'.

He has to work his way around the table until he finally reaches Niall, and then he's got an armful of boy, Niall's ruddy face tucked hotly against his neck. It's not until Niall pulls back, face tipped up to grin brightly at him, that Harry really gets a good look at him.

They've kept in contact over the years, of course, despite uni pulling them in opposite directions, but the endless pictures Niall's posted on Instagram have failed to prepare Harry for this moment. Niall's still skinny, his legs scrawnier than Harry's even, but his shoulders have filled out and there's even a bit of chest hair poking out of the v-neck of his sweater. The Niall that Harry remembers had a mouth full of metal and peroxide blonde hair falling messily across his forehead. The Niall standing in front of Harry has a wide smile with even teeth and his fringe pushed back from his face to show off dark roots that make his eyes look blue blue blue.

The Niall standing in front of Harry is fucking _fit_.

“You look – good,” Harry manages, and Niall grins hard enough to dimple. Not fair, Harry thinks distantly. That's his trick.

“You too, Haz,” he says, pushing up on his toes to run his fingers through Harry's slick-backed hair. “I like this,” he announces. “Y'look like Tarzan. A young Brendan Fraser.”

“My mum's been begging me to cut it,” Harry admits. Niall's fingers are still playing with the ends of his hair, like they last saw each other yesterday and not four years ago.

“Anne's a lovely woman, but she's wrong. Never cut it,” Niall tells him.

Harry ducks his head and Niall's hand finally drops to his side. His smile doesn't dim as he asks Harry, “What're you drinking, then?” and waves away Harry's attempts to pay when he flags down a bartender to order a round.

Niall doesn't seem anxious to return to the table with the others once the bartender plunks two fresh pints in front of them, and Harry leans his hip against the bar, taking a long pull of beer. They fall into an easy conversation, like no time at all has passed between them, and it'd be exactly how Harry remembers, except for the way his eyes keep catching on Niall's lips, tracing the movement of his throat as he swallows.

One pint turns into three, or maybe four, and Harry stumbles when he stands up to use the loo, throwing a hand out to catch himself on the bar.

Niall catches him instead, with fingers wrapped around his waist, the warmth of his palm bleeding through Harry's shirt.

“Y'alright?”

“'M fine,” Harry mumbles back. The ground feels unsteady beneath his feet, like the deck of a ship pitching back and forth on a rough sea. Or maybe it's Niall's eyes that Harry's drowning in, a glittering blue-green abyss.

It's possible that Harry is drunk.

“Hey, Harry,” Niall says, voice low and conspiratorial. “Look up.”

Harry's chin tilts upward and he has to grab onto Niall's shoulder to steady himself so he doesn't topple over backwards.

“What?” he whispers back, because there's a lot to look at up there, blinking lights and boughs of garland and... “is that mistletoe?”

“'Fraid so,” Niall confirms. His lips twitch like he's fighting a smile, but he keeps a straight face as he taps his finger against his mouth. “It's bad luck not to kiss someone underneath mistletoe.”

Harry frowns. “I don't think that's true.” He wants to snatch the words back as soon as he says them, because only an idiot would stand there arguing when they could be snogging Niall.

Hand still gripping Niall's shoulder, Harry leans in towards Niall's upturned face. He wants to do this right, but it's sort of hard to focus and he nearly goes cross-eyed trying to keep Niall in sight, so he lets his eyes slip shut. He ends up bumping his nose against Niall's, lips catching sloppily on the corner of his mouth. Niall pulls back and laughs, bright and loud. He reaches out to tug on a strand of Harry's hair, tells him he's going to order them another round.

“Yeah, all right,” Harry agrees, grinning recklessly.

-

By the time Harry and Niall stagger out of the pub, they're more or less holding each other up. Niall's got an arm wrapped around Harry's waist, and Harry's got his arm slung over Niall's shoulder, and Harry's side is warm where Niall's pressed against him.

It takes twice as long to walk home as it did for Harry to get there. He slips on a patch of ice, free arm windmilling wildly before he goes down hard, taking Niall with him. Niall's groan of pain quickly turns into a laugh, and he's – he's exactly like Harry remembered, like a – a patch of sun on a rainy day, this contained ball of energy and laughter.

Harry's back is cold where the snow has started to seep into the fabric of his jacket and his side hurts where Niall landed on him, but when he stares up at the sky, he sees the swirl of falling snowflakes blinking into existence in the halo of light cast by a nearby streetlamp.

“Niall,” he whispers.

“Yeah?”

Harry turns his head until he can catch Niall's eye. “I wanna make a snow angel.”

“On the sidewalk?”

He nods. Niall looks thoughtful for a moment. “Do I have 't move?”

One of Harry's arms is trapped under Niall, who's still splayed half on the sidewalk and half on Harry.

“Nah,” Harry decides. “I can just...” He kicks out one leg, pumps his free arm up and down. Niall watches with interest, making no effort to move away.

“How's it look?”

Cocking his head, Niall leans over further, resting more of his weight on Harry's chest. Harry grunts when Niall's elbow catches him in the stomach.

“It looks like... half an angel.”

“Well.” Harry looks up at Niall and Niall looks back at Harry. For a long moment, neither of them say anything. Harry cracks first, mouth tipping up into a smile, and then both of them are laughing, a breathless, tangled mess lying on the sidewalk.

There are snowflakes caught on Niall's lashes when they manage to pull themselves together and Harry thinks, for one wild moment, that it doesn't matter that there's no mistletoe overhead, or that Niall's been gone for so long, and leaving again soon. All he has to do is reach up and cup a hand around Niall's face, pull him down and kiss him again, and then... and then...

Niall rolls away. Harry sucks in a breath against the sudden cold, but then Niall's hands are wrapping around his, pulling him to his feet.

“C'mon, 's fuckin' freezing,” Niall complains, dragging Harry along the sidewalk.

He slips a few more times on the way home, but Niall's always there to catch him.

-

When they reach the front door, Harry can't get the key in the lock and after a few fumbling attempts, Niall steals the keys from him, shoving him out of the way.

“Heyyy,” Harry protests weakly, but Niall just winks at him over his shoulder before unlocking the door in one easy motion, pushing it open with a low creak. The lights are all off, Harry's mum and sister long since gone to bed, and he and Niall have to muffle their laughter as they tiptoe up the stairs to Harry's room.

“Shit, Haz,” Niall says when Harry flicks on his bedroom light. “Your room's exactly how I remembered.”

“Yeah,” Harry mumbles, kicking off his shoes and flopping onto the bed. “Hasn't changed much.”

“But you have.”

“What?”

Niall turns the light back off and walks over to the bed, shoving at Harry's hip. “Budge up,” he orders. “'M too old 't sleep on the floor.”

Harry snorts. “'Cause 22 is ancient.” He scoots over anyway and Niall climbs onto the mattress next to him, slipping underneath the duvet and taking over Harry's pillow. They don't fit as well as they used to when they were kids, but Harry finds that he doesn't mind, especially when Niall plasters himself along Harry's side, head tucked beneath his chin.

“Missed you,” Harry whispers in the dark.

“You too, H,” Niall answers sleepily, his hand curling over Harry's heartbeat.

-

Harry wakes up to morning light shinning weakly through his bedroom window, a throbbing headache in his temple, and a numb arm. Groaning, he tries to roll over to bury his face in his pillow, but finds himself pinned in place. Niall makes a little noise of protest, burrowing closer to Harry's side, and ah, that'd explain the pins and needles dancing from his fingertips to his shoulder.

Carefully, Harry extracts his arm from underneath Niall and sits up, yawning widely. He pokes at Niall's face, and Niall opens his eyes a slit, blinking blearily up at Harry before he whines and sticks his entire head under Harry's pillow.

“No,” he says. At least, that's what Harry interprets the muffled noise as.

“Yes,” Harry argues. “C'mon, I want tea.” He climbs over Niall, who mostly just moans pathetically. Wrinkling his nose, Harry realizes they didn't even manage to get their jeans off before passing out last night. He trades the worn denim for a pair of soft joggers, tosses a second pair at Niall's head.

“'M not bringing you breakfast in bed,” Harry warns. “So if you want food, get your lazy arse up.”

“You wound me.” Niall's voice is morning rough and his hair's a mess, but at least he's sitting up, reaching for the joggers. With a grin, Harry heads downstairs in search of some paracetamol for his head. His mum is already in the kitchen, hovering over the stove, and the smell of frying food makes Harry's mouth water.

“Got in late last night,” she comments and Harry shoots her a guilty smile, arm buried to his elbow in the cupboard as he digs around for the medication.

She shakes her head, looking fondly exasperated. “Top shelf, behind the tea.”

When Niall stumbles into the kitchen a moment later, his mum doesn't seem surprised at all. She just smiles warmly at him before ordering Harry to set another place at the table. It's all very domestic, and Harry's head still hurts too much to process how he feels about that. He busies himself making tea, and he feels a tug in his stomach at the way Niall beams at him when he slides a mug over, loaded with milk and sugar just the way Niall likes it.

It's not long before his mum is flicking off the hob and loading their plates up with steaming omelets. Harry dives right in, mouth stuffed full, and his mum takes advantage, immediately pouncing on Niall.

“So, are you back just for the holidays then?”

Niall swallows a bite of egg before answering. “Yeah, I go back in January for my last semester.”

“Mmm. And what's your plan after graduation?”

“Mum,” Harry protests. “It's breakfast, not the Spanish Inquisition.”

Niall laughs. “'S all right. Gonna get the same questions from my aunts and uncles. It's good practice.” He takes another bite, chewing carefully while he considers his answer. “Not really sure what 'm gonna do, actually. Start applying for jobs, see where I end up.”

“And is back here a possibility?”

Harry reaches for the jam, spreading it over his toast with more care than is strictly necessary, running the knife back and forth until it's perfectly even.

“Don't know,” Niall finally answers. Beneath the table, he kicks his foot against Harry's. “Anything's a possibility, really.”

“Well, good luck, wherever you end up.”

Niall grins brightly. “Thanks, Anne.”

She stands up, taking her plate to the sink. “I'm sure you have to get home to see your own family, but if you boys aren't too hungover--”

“ _Mum_ , god,” Harry interrupts.

“--we'd love to have you along to pick a Christmas tree later. You know how hopeless this one is,” she finishes, nodding her head towards Harry.

“You pick out a crooked tree _one_ time...”

“That'd be great,” Niall cuts in smoothly.

Harry shoves a mouthful of toast past his lips while his mum grins. “It's settled then.”

-

Harry can see his breath, escaping in puffs like a whisper of dragon smoke. He wraps his scarf tighter around his neck, rubs his mittened hands together.

“Cold?” Niall murmurs directly into his ear, making him yelp in surprise. He turns in time to see Niall throw his head back in cackling laughter, obviously pleased with himself.

“You're gonna pay for that,” Harry promises.

“'M shakin' in me boots. Oh wait. That's you,” Niall teases, blue eyes twinkling above his pink-tinged cheeks.

Glancing around, Harry spots a pile of unmelted snow. There's not much more than a handful, but that's all he really needs. He waits until Niall's back is turned, distracted by something Gemma's said, before reaching down to scoop it up. On cautious feet, he sneaks up behind Niall, grabbing the collar of Niall's jacket with one hand and shoving the snow down his back with the other.

Niall lets out a strangled yell and Harry darts away, laughing madly. Niall gives chase, cursing a blue-streak. There's not enough snow for a proper snowball fight, so they have to settle for throwing handfuls of icy snow in each other's faces, which at least has the same effect. It's not until Niall's tackled him to the ground, seated himself on the small of Harry's back, and threatened to shove his face into the snow-dusted ground that Harry pants out, “Okay, okay, you win! _You win_!”

He looks up to see Gemma standing over them, arms cross over her chest. “If you two are done behaving like _children,”_ she says, a smile belying her chiding words. “Mum and I have found a tree.”

Niall leaps up, bounding after Gemma like an excited puppy, and Harry climbs slowly to his feet, following in their wake.

-

It's a bit of a challenge, getting the tree unstrapped from the top of the car and through the front door. Harry's not a klutz, exactly, but no one has ever accused him of being graceful, either, and he winces when he trips turning a corner, nearly taking everyone out like a row of dominoes.

He's promptly banned from tree duty and has to stand on the sidelines while Gemma barks orders at Niall, critically eyeing his work as he adjusts the tree stand to make sure the trunk is straight and branches strategically arranged for decorating.

Once Gemma is satisfied, Niall emerges with a flushed face and pine needles sprinkled in his hair, white teeth gleaming as he grins. Harry feels another tug in his stomach, like he's plunged over an unexpected ledge.

Niall's like a part of his family, is the thing, folding in as easily as he always has. He and Gemma are already digging into the box of ornaments, Gemma tossing a handful of tinsel at him that gets caught in his hair, catching in the light as he lets out a full-bodied laugh, and Harry can't use one too many pints as an excuse this time.

He wants to kiss Niall breathless, until his lips are bruised red and his hair is wrecked from Harry's fingers.

It's a stupid thought, a _reckless_ thought, and Harry pushes it down, reaching instead for a strand of lights. He helps Niall wind it around the tree while Gemma offers her unsolicited opinion on what a terrible job they're doing, ignoring the flare of heat he feels every time their fingertips brush.

The three of them spend the better part of an hour decorating the tree, since every time he or Niall hang an ornament, Gemma tsks and takes it back off, re-hanging it an inch or two from it's original spot. The end result is, of course, gorgeous, not that Harry will give Gemma the satisfaction of saying so.

When she finally declares that it's perfect and disappears back to her room, or wherever it is that she goes when she's not bossing him around, Harry collapses onto the couch, flopping back onto the cushions. Niall perches right next to him, their thighs touching, even though there's an entire rest of the couch that he could have sat on.

“Hey, Harry,” he says, nudging Harry's side with his elbow.

“Hmm?”

“Guess what I found.”

Niall sounds giddy with excitement and Harry glances over to see that he's holding something up above their heads. He squints up and realizes with a jolt what it is.

“More mistletoe?”

“Terrible shame, isn't it? Guess we'll have 't kiss again.”

Harry bites his lip. “I hear its bad luck, not to kiss someone under the mistletoe.”

It's an excuse almost as good as the alcohol, or at least, that's what Harry tells himself when Niall leans in, pressing his lips against Harry's. Unlike last night, they manage not to bump noses, but Harry doesn't even have time to reach a hand up and cup it around Niall's face before he's pulling back, blue eyes unreadable.

Pocketing the mistletoe, Niall reaches out and tugs on a strand of Harry's hair that's come loose from his bun.

“Gotta get goin', spend some time with my own family,” he says, like an apology almost, but for what, Harry can't figure out.

“Yeah, 'course. I'll see you around?”

“I'll be here,” Niall promises. Harry just wishes he'd keep it.

-

Harry's covered in flour when his phone buzzes with a new message, barely a day later.

_My familys drivng me crazy what are you doin ?_

Wiping his hand off against his trousers, Harry texts back, “ _B_ _aking cookies. Want in?”_

_save me some dough im on my way_

-

“Feel like 'm on an episode of _The Great British Bake Off_.”

“If you're going to bake, Niall, you're going to do it _right_ ,” Harry says with authority, swatting at Niall's hand when he reaches for another spoonful of batter.

“Ow! Just 'cause you spent a summer working in a bakery doesn't make you a culinary genius,” Niall laughs.

“My baked goods sold out before anyone else's, I'll have you know. And anyway, wasn't just the one summer.”

“No?”

Harry shakes his head. “Every summer since, actually, and winter hols.”

“Committed, aren't ya?”

“Yeah, well.” Harry ducks his head and for the first time in a long time, misses the way his fringe used to fall in his face, across his eyes. “Been thinking, you know. The bakery might be, like. A long-term sort of thing.”

That makes Niall sit up. “Really? I thought you were gonna stay in Manchester.”

Shrugging, Harry grabs for a pair of oven mitts, pulling another tray of cookies out of the oven. “Got one semester left, but I don't think I'll stay after that.”

Niall frowns. “So, what? You're gonna get your business degree and move back home 't become a _baker_?”

“I like it here. And listen – try this,” he instructs, scooping a cookie off the tray with a spatula and sliding it into Niall's hand.

“Ah, ah, hot,” Niall hisses, shoving it into his mouth anyway. “Oh m'god, Haz,” he mumbles. “'S fuckin' delicious.”

“I know.” He grins as Niall rolls his eyes. “But, listen, okay – you remember Barbara, the owner? She wants to cut back her hours, take a step down from the day to day operations, and she said, well... once I get my degree, she's willing to hire me, not as a baker, but, like, as manager.”

Niall blinks at him a minute before his face splits into a wide grin. “Shit, Haz, that's amazing!”

“Yeah.” Harry takes a deep breath. “There's something else, though.” Something he hasn't even worked up the courage to tell his mum, yet. “Barbara's thinking about retiring, in a few years. Gonna sell the place.”

“So much for your job security,” Niall says lightly.

“That's the thing, though. Was thinking, if I could save enough by then, and, like, the manager stuff works out, obviously, that I could, y'know. Buy it.”

Niall's eyes widen, and he lets out a low whistle. “Damn. You've got it all figured out, don't you? 'M impressed, mate.”

A few days ago, Harry would have agreed with him. Now all he can think about is how much he wants to kiss away the streak of flour on Niall's cheek. He settles for reaching a hand out, wiping it away with his thumb.

“Sorry, you had – bit of flour.” He holds up his white-covered thumb as evidence.

Niall smiles, like he's got a secret. “Mmm. Y'know, Harry, we've really gotta stop meeting like this.”

“What?”

Niall points up and Harry follows his finger to where a sprig of mistletoe is dangling over their heads, tied to the ceiling fan with bright red string.

“I didn't do that,” Harry says immediately, because he _didn't_.

With a conspiratorial grin, Niall murmurs, “Must've been the elves, eh?”

When Niall kisses him this time, Harry can taste a hint of chocolate on his lips. He can't help tracing his tongue over his own lips when Niall breaks the kiss, chasing the taste and coming up empty. Niall just smiles again, reaching for another cookie.

-

“Ice skating. You're joking, right?”

“Harry. Do I look like a man who jokes? No, wait, don't answer that. Just, c'mon, it'll be fun!”

Harry crosses his arms over his chest. It's too cold to stand in the doorway arguing with Niall, but there is no way in hell Harry's agreeing to this. “What's fun about falling on my arse? Because believe me, Niall, that's exactly what's going to happen.”

Waving a hand dismissively, Niall says, “I'll catch you. 'M very good with my hands,” he adds, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.

It's sort of pathetic, how quickly Harry's resolve crumbles in the face of Niall's earnest smile. That's how he finds himself at the ice rink a short time later, sat on a freezing bench and struggling to lace up a pair of rented skates that are pinching his toes.

Niall skates up to him, skidding to a graceful stop right in front of the bench, and shakes his head.

“Are ya seriously still putting your skates on? Ice is gonna melt before you even get out there.”

“I am _trying_ ,” Harry says with exasperation. “I just... don't have very coordinated fingers.”

Niall rolls his eyes, stepping cautiously off the ice and onto the frost-covered ground. When he reaches Harry, he drops to his knees in front of him, and god, that's not a visual Harry needs right now.

“Put your foot on my thigh,” Niall instructs, patting his trouser-clad leg.

“But I could _cut_ you!” Harry protests.

“F'fuck's sake – you're not gonna hurt me with those dull blades. Just be gentle.”

Carefully, Harry lifts his foot and lets Niall guide it onto his thigh. With nimble fingers, Niall tightens his laces, tying a neat bow when he reaches the top. He makes quick work of the other skate and Harry suddenly finds himself without an excuse to avoid getting onto the ice.

“Wow,” he says, feigning a yawn. “'S getting late, isn't it? Time sure does fly, when you're having fun.”

Niall glares at him. “It's 7:30. Get up, ya lazy arse.”

“Niall,” Harry whines.

“Nope, no more excuses.” Pushing up onto his feet, Niall grabs both of Harry's hands. “You're getting onto that ice, even if it kills you.”

“That's what I'm afraid of,” Harry huffs, but lets Niall pull him off the bench and shakily to his feet. He freezes when they get to the edge of the rink.

“Listen, are you sure about this? Because I think--”

“Won't let you go, okay? Baby steps, Haz. C'mon, one foot at a time, there you go.” Niall coaches him through it, until Harry has shuffled onto the ice and has both skates planted firmly on the ground. Niall starts to skate backwards, still holding onto Harry, and then they're moving, gliding across the ice.

“Holy shit. Look at me. Niall, look! I'm ice skating!”

Niall laughs and Harry can see his frosted breath dancing into the air. “You're the next Michelle Kwan.”

They make it nearly an entire lap before Harry trips over nothing, falling onto his arse and dragging Niall down with him. He skids along the ice, hands flailing wildly, until Niall pulls them to a stop, breath coming in a wheezing gasp that's either an asthma attack or a laugh.

“What the hell, Harry! All you were doin' was standing. How'd you manage 't fall?”

“I _told_ you,” Harry says huffily. “'M a disaster.”

Niall grins, climbing to his feet and tugging at Harry's hand. “Practice makes perfect. Let's take another lap.”

“Are you fucking kidding?”

-

Niall's not kidding. He makes them skate until Harry's sure his entire backside is bruised purple and he can't feel his toes, laughing all the while at Harry's pain.

When he finally lets them off the ice, he offers to buy Harry a hot cocoa to make up for it. Harry wants to refuse on principal, because he can't be so easily bribed, but his fingers are frozen and he's never been good at denying himself.

Niall leaves him at a picnic table beneath an overhanging branch and returns a short time later with two steaming cups.

“Wait,” he says when Harry reaches for one. With a grin, he pulls a flask from his jacket pocket. “Bailey's,” he explains, pouring a healthy dollop in each of their cups.

“You're the most Irish person I know,” Harry informs him, nearly groaning at the first sip of his doctored cocoa. “Jesus, that's good.”

An easy silence settles between them as they drink their cocoa, watching the other skaters fly by on the rink. Harry wriggles his toes in his skates, wondering if the feeling will ever return, when Niall bumps his elbow into Harry's.

“Did you pick this table on purpose?”

“It was the closest one. Why?”

“'Cause 'm pretty sure that's mistletoe above us.”

Harry looks up at the mostly bare branch that's dangling over their heads. There are a handful of leaves still clinging stubbornly, but even in the dark it's pretty clear that none of them are mistletoe.

“Uh. Pretty sure those are oak leaves.”

“Really? Huh. Dunno, never been one 't tempt fate, meself. Should probably kiss, just 't be on the safe side.” Niall's grinning at him, all white teeth and dimpled cheeks, like this whole thing is some big joke.

Well. The joke won't be on Harry, this time. Licking his lips, he leans in and across the table, Niall mirrors him. Plucking off his mitten, Harry reaches out, curving his palm over Niall's cheek. His skin is cool to the touch, red-bitten from the wind, but his mouth is warm when Harry presses a kiss to his lips. Before Niall can pull back, Harry tightens his grip on Niall's jaw, angling his head a bit so he can deepen the kiss. Niall lets out a tiny gasp and Harry takes advantage, turning it into a proper snog, sucking at Niall's lower lip and swallowing the quiet sounds Niall makes.

By the time they break apart, all the leaves overhead have blown away. Niall watches him with wide, dark eyes, his lips a bruised red. He touches his fingertips to his mouth as if he's testing that it wasn't a dream.

“Think you might've been right,” he says weakly. “Don't think it was mistletoe, after all.”

“Pity,” Harry says. “You'll have to find another excuse, now.”

“I...” Niall trails off, laughing nervously. “Bit too much Bailey's, y'think?”

Harry stands up. “Think I'm gonna go home, actually.” He's still swearing his skates, but he thinks he manages a fairly dramatic exit given the circumstances. He doesn't trip, at any rate, which is good, because Niall isn't there to catch him.

-

Harry spends the next two days doing a piss poor job of not thinking about Niall, and a worse job at not losing horribly to Zayn in Words with Friends. After a particularly lopsided score, Zayn rings him. Harry almost doesn't answer, but ends up accepting the call right before it goes to voicemail.

“Lo?”

“Haz,” Zayn's voice sounds sleepy, his accent thick like it only gets when he's been home for awhile. “Are ya losin' on purpose, like? Or is summat else up with you.”

Leave it to Zayn, Harry thinks, to figure out something's wrong based on a bloody game. He's too intuitive for his own good, and Harry tells him so.

Zayn laughs into the phone and Harry imagines him curled up on the couch, surrounded by the sisters he's always going on about. “You wear your heart on y'sleeve, Harry. 'S'not hard to tell when you're upset about somethin'.”

“It's nothing,” Harry lies. “Just, like. How do you know if you're in love?”

“Oh, Jesus. You've been home for less than a week, who'd you go and fall in – _ohhh_.”

“Oh?” Harry repeats. “What do you mean, _oh_? Who do you think is this obvious candidate, huh?”

He can almost hear Zayn's answering smile. “Niall, innit?”

“You – what ---” Harry's sputtering. “You've never even met him!”

“You've got enough pictures of 'im on our bloody walls, don'tcha? For someone you haven't seen in years, you talk about him like he hung the damn moon.”

“He's my best mate!”

“' _I'm_ your best mate,” Zayn corrects. “Niall, apparently, is the love of your life.” He pauses. “Not seeing the problem here, actually.”

“The _problem_ is that I snogged Niall, and now he won't talk to me.”

“Right. Did he snog you back?”

“Well yes, but--”

“And have you tried talking to him?”

“Well no, but--”

“Harry. You can't go 'round snoggin' people and expecting things to just work out. You gotta use your words, mate. Though it sounds like Niall's as hopeless as you are. You two are made for each other.”

“'M gonna miss you,” Harry says suddenly. “If I – when I move back home. Won't be the same without you, mate.”

Zayn snorts. “We've still got a semester left, yeah? There's time later f'you to be a sop. And who knows if I'll be able to get a job with my English degree, anyway. Might need ya to hire me on, in that bakery of yours.”

“You're a rubbish cook.”

“Yeah, yeah. Take care of yourself, okay Haz? Don't care if he was friends with ya first, I'll break his face if he breaks your heart.”

Harry grins. “Like you'd hurt a fly.”

“No fly's ever broken your heart,” Zayn points out.

“Love you, Z.”

“You too, H. Talk to him. Make me proud.”

Harry disconnects the call feeling like a weight has been lifted from his shoulders. Riding the wave of courage Zayn's given him, he quickly taps out a text and hits send.

_Think we need to talk xx_

-

Harry's lingering over a cup of tea in the kitchen when he hears the faint knock. His mum and Gemma have already gone to bed, so Harry climbs to his feet, padding softly to the front door.

He opens it to find Niall, smiling sheepishly.

“Y'know it's Christmas Eve, right?”

“Yeah. Are ya gonna invite me in, or are we gonna do this in the cold?”

Harry stands back, letting Niall shuffle past him. Niall kicks off his boots and sheds his coat in the hall, turning back to raise a questioning brow at Harry.

“Living room,” Harry decides. “Need to stoke the fire, anyway.”

Niall watches silently as Harry pokes at the fire, adding another log with a flurry of embers. They burn bright for a moment, a molten red-orange, dancing through the air, before falling to the hearth, snuffing out of existence. It's poetic, Harry thinks. Great material for the sad poems he's going to fill his moleskin notebook with if this goes badly.

“So,” he says, turning away from the fire. “What're we doing here, Niall?”

Niall shifts his weight from one foot to the other, and Harry would call the movement nervous, if he didn't know better. Maybe he doesn't, he realizes with a start.

“Right. I had a speech planned out on the walk over, but since this isn't a romcom, I'm just gonna come out with it.” Niall takes a deep breath. “The thing is, Harry. You're, like. You grew up, y'know? When I left, you were this gangly kid with too much hair, and actually, you've got more hair now, but it's, like, it's contained, or whatever, and I'm – I'm fucking this all up, Jesus.”

Harry has to keep his lips pressed against a smile, because Niall's cute when he's tripping over his words, but Harry's always been pragmatic and he needs to hear the end of Niall's not-speech.

“The thing is, Harry,” Niall continues after giving himself a moment to regroup. “I was half in love with you when I left for uni, and I thought, like, it was a stupid crush that I'd grow out of, but here we are, four years later, and I can't stop finding excuses 't kiss you.”

“You found one excuse,” Harry interrupts. “And it was mistletoe. Like, five times.”

“Four, okay, it was only four--”

“Yeah, but that last one counts for two, at least.”

“Would ya – christ, Harry, I'm tryin' 't say something important, here.”

“Sorry,” Harry says, not feeling sorry at all.

“Anyway. Where was I? Right, right. So, the thing is. I have no idea what I'm doin' with my life, or where I'll end up, but I think – no, I _know_ – that I'm definitely still half in love with you. Or maybe, like, three-quarters of the way? The point is--”

“You're hopeless. Like, worse than me at speeches, and I'm bloody awful.”

“That wasn't a speech!” Niall protests. “And you didn't let me get 't the point.”

Harry grins. “I love you too, you idiot. All the way, not some stupid fraction. We don't have to figure our lives out tonight, and if you'd shut up, I'd really like to kiss you again.”

“Huh,” Niall says. “Yeah, that... that pretty much sums it up.”

They've wasted enough time on talking, Harry decides. He takes a step closer until he can wrap his fingers around the back of Niall's neck, the soft hair on his nape tickling against his skin.

“There's no mistletoe above us,” Harry whispers. “You still sure you wanna do this?”

“Now who's the one who needs 't shut up?” Niall asks, surging forward to kiss Harry before he can answer. He has to go up on toes to reach Harry's mouth, arms wrapped around Harry's shoulders to keep his balance. Harry takes advantage, trailing one hand down Niall's side until he reaches the hem of his jumper, fingertips finding warm skin. He tugs at the fabric. “Off,” he mumbles against Niall's lips.

“We're in your _living room_ ,” Niall protests, but doesn't stop Harry from pulling the jumper over his head. Beneath the pads of his fingers, Harry can feel goosebumps break out on Niall's skin. Grabbing him by the hips, he marches Niall backwards, closer to the fireplace.

“You're a proper romantic,” Niall says around a grin.

“You talk too much.” Harry tugs his own shirt off, throwing it to the floor before cupping Niall's face again, kissing the corner of his mouth, his jawline, his neck. Not to be outdone, Niall's hands quickly find their way to the snap of Harry's trousers, undoing the button and slipping inside his pants to palm at his dick.

“Je-e-sus,” Harry grits out, pressing his forehead to Niall's shoulder as Niall starts up a shaky rhythm.

“I'd suck you off,” he pants. “But my knee'd be fucked on this floor.”

“Could – grab you a pillow--”

Niall sucks a bruising kiss onto Harry's collarbone. “And they say chivalry is dead.”

Harry laughs breathlessly, a groan catching in his throat as Niall twists his hand on the upstroke, making his hips stutter. “Couch,” Harry says, his hands still gripping Niall to keep his balance, even as his knees go weak.

They manage to stumble their way to the couch, Harry landing on his back with an _oof,_ trousers caught around his thighs, and Niall quickly climbs on top of him, leaning down to kiss him sloppily as he grinds their hips together. Harry can't figure out what to do with his hands, wanting to touch Niall everywhere at once; the back of his neck where his hair is starting to mat with sweat, the smooth planes of his pale back, the round curve of his bum.

Niall's given up on any sense of rhythm, rutting his hips helplessly against Harry's, panting hotly against Harry's neck.

“'M... gonna...” he manages to stutter out before he comes in his pants, biting back a groan. They're still in the living room Harry realizes distantly, even as he fucks his hips up against Niall, who's mostly collapsed into a useless heap on top of him. It takes Niall a sluggish minute to figure out that Harry's still trying to get off, and when he reaches a hand between them to wrap around Harry's dick, Harry lets out a low whine. It only takes a few quick pulls before Harry's coming, over Niall's hand and his own stomach.

For a long moment, the only sound is their ragged panting and the occasional crackle from the fire.

“Jesus,” Niall finally says, voice hoarse like he actually did suck Harry's cock. “Can't believe we did that in your _living room_.”

“Everyone's asleep,” Harry assures him. “I mean, I hope they are.”

Niall laughs again, muffling the sound by burying his face into Harry's sweaty neck. “Gonna kill me,” he mumbles.

Stroking a hand through Niall's sweaty hair, Harry fidgets a bit, uncomfortably sticky now that the sexy part has ended. “Gonna grab a flannel,” he murmurs, pressing his lips to Niall's forehead in a soft kiss. Niall makes no effort to move, so Harry has to shove him off with a grunt, padding across the room to grab their shirts and tossing Niall's to him before shuffling into the bathroom. He cleans himself off quickly, wetting the flannel again with warm water to bring it back to Niall.

By the time he returns, Niall's already snoring softly, his jumper riding up to expose his jutting hip bone like he didn't finish pulling it on before he passed out. Harry can feel his lips tug up into a fond smile. Reaching for a blanket, he climbs back on the couch, wedging himself halfway under Niall, who grunts but doesn't open his eyes.

He's going to wake up with an awful crick in his neck from sleeping on the couch, and Niall's going to be annoyed by his sticky boxers, but right now, Harry doesn't care. Pulling the blanket over both of them, he settles onto the cushions, Niall's arm wrapped around his chest. He falls asleep still smiling.

-

Harry wakes up with an awful crick in his neck and Niall whining in his ear about his sticky boxers. It's barely dawn, but the gray light of early morning brightens the room more than the ashy embers left in the fireplace. It's enough to see the presents piled under the tree that Niall helped decorate, but Harry doesn't care much about unwrapping them.

He's already got what he wanted.

“Merry Christmas, Niall,” he says, pressing a kiss to Niall's temple, the closest patch of skin he can reach.

Niall turns his head, face tucked into Harry's neck and mumbles back, “You too, Haz.”

They need to get upstairs and showered before Gemma or his mum wakes up and catches them, and Niall needs to get back to his own family, but Harry wants to cling to this moment forever. He wraps his arm tighter around Niall, pulling him in close.

“Glad you came home for Christmas.”

Harry can feel Niall smile against his skin. “Me too.”

 


End file.
